


like angels on fire (we burn the sky)

by Lire_Casander



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canonical Child Abuse, F/M, Jesse Manes is His Own Warning, M/M, Minor Character Death, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-19 14:43:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22479391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lire_Casander/pseuds/Lire_Casander
Summary: They're just two souls lost in a sea of sadness. Neither has lived the life they were meant to live. Neither has found happiness. They're just surviving, waiting for the right moment, the right second when everything will make sense again.For Michael, that moment translates into finding his mother. For Alex, that second means defeating his father.When their paths cross again, will they be brave enough to take a step forward together?
Relationships: Max Evans/Liz Ortecho, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 12
Kudos: 59





	like angels on fire (we burn the sky)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Andrea_Lynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andrea_Lynn/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Manda! I hope you're having a blast today! 
> 
> I know we don't really talk that much, but your stories always manage to touch me, and I wanted to give back a bit of that love you always pour in your fics. Anonymously, I asked you about what you'd really like to read in fandom, and although I got several great prompts, one kinda stuck with me.
> 
> So here, I hope you enjoy this **canon-adjacent AU where Michael is an alien who works for SETI and Alex gets sent there by his Dad to see if they have information and hijinks (and love) ensues** I tried my best to write for you.

**june 2008**

He watches as Michael cradles his bloodied hand to his chest, the last image his brain registers before a strong arm drags him out of the shed and he stumbles out in the chilly openness of the backyard. Heʼs still shirtless, reeling from the high of his first time laced with the fear of fingers closing around his throat. He shivers. 

“You will learn your lessons,” the monster growls, hammer still in hand. “I’ll make a real Manes man out of you, and you will abide by my rules.” 

He wants to shake his head. He wants to rebel. He wants to spit into the monsterʼs face and tell him that heʼs got no power over feelings that are now unleashed. 

“Or else,” the monster keeps on, hammer dangling from his fingertips as though it didnʼt weigh a ton under the guilt of having destroyed two futures with one swing. “Or else, _he_ suffers the consequences. No one will miss garbage like him.” 

He spits at the monster and screams, “I will never!” 

The monster simply laughs and strolls over Michael, who flinches back until he’s pressed against the wall of the shed. “Your choice, Alexander.” 

The hammer is still swinging; he sees as Michael recoils but there’s nowhere to run now that the monster is crowding them. He manages to slip in between them, facing the monster in an attempt to protect Michael. “Run,” he hisses. “I’ll be fine. Run.” 

“Heʼll kill you,” Michael warns. “Lemme—” 

There’s a flash of white light then, the moment the hammer collides against his side, the pain coursing through him as the monster lifts his hand once again. He hears yells, but he pushes Michael toward the fence and kicks the ground. “Go!” 

“I wonʼt leave you!” 

He ducks another hit, the hammer and the noises mixing in his ears until there’s only a dull ache in his soul, and promises, “I’ll find you! Believe me, Iʼll always find you!” 

The hammer knocks into his side and he doesn’t feel anything else.

* * *

**december 2019**

The sunrise is still one of Michael’s favorite times of the day. He sits on his couch, facing the big window across the living room, with a mug filled to the brim with freshly-made black coffee, and stares into the horizon where the darkness gives way to the oranges and pinks that color the clouds in the sky. He loves starting his days as though they were a blank canvas, ready to be painted with feelings and adventures yet to be defined. Michael loves the uncertainty of a new day, mainly because he’s never sure of how his existence is going to evolve most of the time — that has been his life for the past years, after all, jumping from one place to another, always fleeing, always fighting. He’s never felt at home anywhere.

Michael sips from his mug absentmindedly as he watches the sun rising behind the Diablo Range. He loves his apartment — a penthouse in a really fancy neighborhood in Mountain View that he wasn’t so keen on keeping but fellow colleagues convinced him to rent it for at least a year before deciding about moving out. It isn’t really Michael’s scene, surrounded by posh people every time he dares to go for a walk, but the amazing view from his windows — the Santa Cruz Mountains from his bedroom, the Diablo Range from his living room — had made Michael fall in love with the place. The fact that the apartment was mostly isolated, standing by itself right below the rooftop where Michael had exclusive access, had also been an advantage in Michael’s book.

And still, Michael doesn’t feel fully at ease there, not like he should be _at home_.

He waits until the sun is high enough in the sky to bathe his living room in oranges and yellows, and stands up with a sigh. “Time to go to work,” he tells his reflection on the mirror hung on the wall next to the door as he saunters toward the kitchen, an open space adjacent to the living room. He leaves the mug on the sink, coffee half drunk, and he goes to grab his coat from the rack he keeps in the foyer. Even though winters in California are way more forgiving than they were in New Mexico, Michael still feels colder than most under forty degrees Fahrenheit. He thinks it may be because of his higher body temperature, or maybe because he just can’t stand the cold; either way, he’s in dire need of a new coat, since his is already fraying at the seams. “Dammit,” he mutters when he sees the damaged fabric along the sleeves. “Right now is not a good time for this!” 

He nervously checks the clock once again. He’s going to be late for work, _again_ , but he can’t walk out in the cold with a frayed coat that’s disassembling as he walks. Michael closes his eyes and stretches out his right hand as he summons his emergency sewing set. The items come flying his way and he catches the needles and the threads mid-air with his mind, forcing them to work on the sleeves as he keeps his focus on not making anything else spin around his apartment — he’s found himself spiraling out of control with his powers when he’s in a rush or anxious, and right now he’s both. 

He can’t be late for work today of all days, the date he’s got marked in his calendar for weeks now. His manager lectured him about being on time for the arrival of a supervisor sent by the brand new USSF, and about the need for making a good first impression if they wanted to keep their grants to study the universe. Michael remembers distinctly his manager’s words, _this is SETI, Guerin, you don’t try, you do it_ , and curses under his breath when he loses his focus and the needle drops to the floor.

“This has to do,” he decides when he checks both the coat and the clock again, knowing he will have to run to get to his cubicle in time. “Apart from telekinesis, I could have developed some power to self-transport!”

He shakes his head and rushes out the door, locking it with his mind as he doesn’t bother to wait for the elevator. He flies down the stairs, jumping two at a time, and flings himself into his truck — one of the only vestiges of his old cowboy life back in Roswell — in an attempt to make it to his office in time. 

The traffic in the city is crazy during rush hour, but Michael manages to get to his parking spot with a few minutes to spare, if only because heʼs foregone his habit of stopping at his favorite coffee shop to get his teamʼs order. He hopes Gina and Blake will forgive him. 

“Hey, boss,” Gina greets him as he almost throws himself into his chair. “Looks like youʼre in a bit of a rush.” 

“Oh, shut up,” he retaliates, short of breath. He sheds his coat and allows it to fall on the floor behind the chair, somewhere it wonʼt be seen. “I almost didn't make it in time.” 

“Late night?” Blake pipes up, head peeking out on top of the feeble panel separating his cubicle from Michael’s. “You look like shit.”. 

“You’re great at compliments, you know,” Michael frowns at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

“Ugh, no, not really,” Blake shakes his head. “Spare me the details.” 

Michael laughs heartily. He turns to his computer, typing in his password and waiting for the system to load. He likes his colleagues, even if theyʼre sometimes sassy and bossy with him. In fact, Michael likes almost everyone he knows in the building, something that hadnʼt happened to him back home in New Mexico — Roswell had just been a hole where he lost his childhood to bigots and fanatics. There had been so little to be salvaged from his memories when he fled that small town that he cherishes every one of them, even the hurtful ones. 

Especially the hurtful ones. 

“Guerin!” he hears from the other side of the hall. Blake sits down as Gina rolls her eyes next to Michael. “Are you already here?” 

“Showtime,” he winks at Gina as he stands up and strolls toward his bossʼ office. He hears her snicker at his back, but he takes it all in stride as he shows off his swagger, another remnant of his cowboy past. 

Old habits die hard, after all. 

He left everything when he decided to take the full ride to college. He vowed to forget the pain and the abuse, but there’s only so much he can do about that, and his old coping mechanisms usually kick in when heʼs nervous. So he just puts on a mask of self-assurance and disdain heʼs used so much in the past, and reaches the office door in a few steps. 

“Dʼyou want to see me, Annalyse?” he says as a greeting as he enters the office. 

“Sit down, Guerin,” the middle-aged woman sitting behind a big desk says, motioning for him to take a seat, the gleaming sign on the surface reading _Doctor Marshall_ in black letters outlined in gold. When he obliges, she smiles softly. “I trust you with our visit today.” 

“More than a visit, it looks like a goddamned occupation,” he points out. Heʼs seen the renovations around to accommodate the new supervisorʼs office. 

“Guerin,” she sighs. “Donʼt be difficult, it doesn’t suit you.” 

“Itʼs taken me so far in life.” 

“And for that I am grateful,” she taps her fingers on the wooden surface. “But keep it down, okay? This new supervisor ranks high in the Air Force, and heʼs actually a well-known war hero. Heʼs got the connections, as well.” 

“I’ll behave, I promise,” he tells her, lifting his hands in the air as though surrendering. 

“You may even know him,” she continues. “Heʼs from Roswell too.” 

“Well, Roswell is a small town, but itʼs not _that_ small.” 

She ignores him and goes on. “Heʼs going to be your superior as well, you know. Iʼve been assigned to a different unit.” She leans back in her chair, as though she hasnʼt dropped the worst bomb on him. 

“Wait, you what?” 

He looks at her bewildered, almost frantic. A huge reason why he feels so at ease at SETI rests on this womanʼs shoulders. She took him in and accepted him when he was fresh out of college, she put up with him when he thought he’d found out a glitch in the Drake Equation, she comforted him throughout his whole doctorate adventure and threw a party when he got his PhD. 

Maybe that stunt with the Drake Equation brought Michael back to his siblings on Antar eight years ago, but Annalyse Marshall has been his beacon for just as long. 

“You canʼt,” he complains. 

“Iʼm afraid I have no options here,” she explains. “I will be around, and we will be able to gather for our daily coffee break, but I won’t be your superior any longer. Higher up in the ranks, they think itʼs better if they keep civilians out of these positions.”

“Thatʼs bullshit, and you know it.” 

“Donʼt be difficult, Michael,” she repeats, the use of his given name soothing him a little. “Besides, Iʼm sure Captain Manes and you will get along nicely. You’re about the same age.” 

Michael is too engrossed in thinking about all the ways heʼs going to have to conceal his true nature — about how heʼs now thrown into the unknown — that he almost misses it. 

Almost. 

“Wait, did you say,” he whispers feeling his blood run cold in his veins, “Captain Manes?” 

“Yes,” she reassures him, checking her notes. “Captain Alexander Manes, former Air Force, now Captain of the newly founded USSF.”

* * *

Alex pinches the bridge of his nose as he reads through the same report he’s been leafing through for the most part of his ride to the SETI headquarters. He doesn’t understand more of it with the seventh reading, and he’s about to give up.

“We’re approaching the building,” his driver announces in the impersonal voice he’s been using the whole drive up from Alex’s hotel. “ETA three minutes.”

“Thanks,” he mutters as he focuses back on the report. The algorithms and the numbers seem to be dancing the conga on the page. Alex sighs, almost inaudibly; he closes the folder and puts it aside on the seat. He might be a codebreaker and an expert in cyber-security, but he doesn’t know a thing about space and the race to be the first country to make contact with aliens.

In fact, having grown up in Roswell, Alex Manes is a firm disbeliever. 

The only reason why heʼs accepted this position is because no one says _no_ to Jesse Manes. 

That, and the fact that his father is convinced there are aliens out there ready to take over Earth, and his main quest in his life is to counteract those attacks by running a clandestine yet fully funded side project named Project Shepherd. Alex doesn’t really believe his father is anything but a fanatic, but itʼs better to remain in Jesse Manesʼ good graces. After spending around ten years feeling like heʼs been just a puppet in his fatherʼs hands — enlisting, going to war, abiding by his rules — Alex thinks heʼs ready to put his plan to work. 

He’s going to destroy everything thatʼs dear to his father, and heʼs going to make him watch. 

His phone beeps, once, twice, as the vibration sends a jolt up the side where he keeps the device. He fishes for it, ignoring the pointed look his driver sends his way through the rearview mirror — there’s been firm orders that any unapproved technology is explicitly forbidden inside the headquarters — and this driver has been hired by his father to ensure Alex doesn’t go astray from the task at hand. Theyʼre still two minutes away from the building. Alex glances at the messages popping up on his screen, the names flashing across. 

_good luck today, you’ll need it. k_

_donʼt cheat on the pony with another cali bar_

_Hey, Alex, it’s Liz. Call me when you can. I might have a lead on what youʼre looking for._

He sighs. It’s been a while since heʼs relied on civilian technology for his communications; heʼs been working far too long for the military so heʼs aware of all the ways espionage works. But heʼs got no choice here, not when he needs his friends help in his quest to take down everything his father loves. 

Alex sees the building in front of the car as the driver pulls up. He quickly dismisses his phone, turning it off before even picking up the folder heʼs discarded. He needs to focus if he wants to win, and he _has_ to win this war. It’s a battle more important than the ones heʼs fought for his country, a battle more decisive than any confrontation against the worldʼs largest threat. 

Alex has to face his own demons, go undercover in an attempt to appease his father, and take him down from the inside. Ten years ago he vowed he would never be defenseless against his own monsters, the reminder of a mangled and bloodied hand pressing against his beaten chest etched forever in the deepest of his memories. 

“Captain Manes,” he hears as he exits the car, carefully avoiding to put any weight on his right leg. “Welcome to SETI.” 

He takes in the group in front of him. There are a few military men, mainly from Army, waiting for him outside the building despite the freezing cold of late December. Next to them, two women and a man are standing awkwardly, looking everywhere but at him. He plasters his best fake smile on and stretches his hand when he approaches the civilians in a display of good manners. There will be time to greet the other military men, lower in the ranks and definitely under his fatherʼs orders. 

“Hello,” he says in a soft voice. “Iʼm Captain Alex Manes.” 

“Doctor Annalyse Marshall,” the older woman introduces herself. “And these are Gina Thomason and Blake Sully. I believe you will be working with them from now on.” 

Alex nods as he shakes their hands. Heʼs read another report about the people who would be under his command — they form a group of three researchers under Doctor Marshallʼs direction, but Alex has only been able to find the names of two of them; the third, for reasons he hadnʼt been able to fathom, is an undisclosed identity. Often, in Alex’s experience, it means that the person is either an illegal immigrant or someone with a record, and given that SETI doesn’t hire anyone with a criminal past, he thinks his third researcher must be someone who’s not legally living in the States. 

“I canʼt wait to start working with you,” he offers with a tight smile. “Maybe later you could fill me in on whatever progress youʼve made with the Drake Equation.” He knows he isn’t sounding confident at all, mainly because he doesn’t feel like it given his lack of knowledge, but he hopes he can dodge any questions in the future by making some sort of friendship now with his subordinates. 

He turns to the military men beside them, and out of the corner of his eye he notices the civilians walking inside the building. He learns that theyʼre at SETI to follow him everywhere and to protect him from any outside attack. 

He just wants to go back home, but heʼs got a mission to fulfill. 

He dismisses the soldiers as soon as he can — there’s only so much praise for his father he can stand after all — and allows them to guide him through the building up to his new office. He’s too busy trying not to trip over his own feet, his right leg still paining him after the long flight from Roswell, so he doesn’t pay much attention to anything that isn’t the floor. 

He runs into someone, hard and fast, before his new bodyguards can stop him. He rushes to apologize when the other person begins talking over him, and a voice he hadnʼt heard in over ten years — pained, strained, in tears — floods his ears. 

“Sorry, I didnʼt see you,” and then the voice comes to a halt, at the same time as Alex looks up. 

Straight into Michael Guerinʼs honey-colored eyes. 

His mind goes blank for a second before he catches himself and shakes his head, dismissing his bodyguards who have just stepped closer to him. “I’m good,” he says, eyes not leaving Michael’s face. “Guerin,” he whispers, for lack of better greeting.

“Alex,” Michael says back, a frown deepening in his already pale face. He looks like he’s going to be sick any moment.

“You work here?” he asks stupidly, and when Michael doesn’t really reply, Alex realizes two things at the same time.

He’s still missing a name from his team, and he has the odd feeling that Michael Guerin is the one he's been lacking.

And the left hand that was so broken and bloody nineteen and a half years ago is completely healed and unblemished, as though the hammer had only been part of Alex’s worst nightmares.

* * *

**january 2020**

“I swear, this weekʼs lasted eighty-four years _at least_ ,” Gina says dramatically as she flops down next to Michael. He doesn’t even budge, so she nudges him until he lifts his gaze from the article heʼs reading — something about black holes and supernovas written by some up and coming Chinese researcher. “Cap makes us work twice as hard as Marshall ever did.” 

“First, it’s _Captain_ ,” Blake corrects her before biting down on his muffin. “And he seems so lost. I donʼt think he even knows what we really do here. Yesterday he asked me about the equation like heʼd never heard of it!” 

“Thatʼs because he probably has never heard of it,” Michael tells them, focusing once again on his article. “This Wu has some interesting things to say.” 

“Donʼt deflect, Guerin,” Gina pokes at his arm. “You have yet to tell us how Cap was in high school.” 

“And why he keeps looking at your hand as if he has never seen a left hand in his life.” 

Michael takes a deep breath before looking up again. Heʼs always thought that getting away from Roswell meant heʼd never have to explain what happened to his hand, but trust Alex Manes to come back to his life and turn it upside down. Now he has two eager colleagues hungry for information. “Itʼs nothing,” he begins. “As you all know by now, Captain Manes and I knew each other. The last time I saw him, I had been in a terrible accident,” he bites down on his lip, balancing out what he wants to share with what he should say. “My left hand was horribly damaged.”

“But it isn’t, now,” Blake points out, gesturing toward him as though it isn’t obvious that his hand looks perfectly good. Michael knows that Blake and Gina canʼt really understand that, underneath the pristine skin, the tendons still seize up and the bones still protest when it rains. 

“I ran away to college,” Michael explains. “I had a scholarship I wasnʼt giving up on, but I couldn’t afford a doctor. When I was twenty-one, my siblings found me and they helped me get the medical attention I needed. The rest is history,” he finishes, looking down at his article once again. 

He doesn’t want to see the pity in their eyes about how poor heʼd been in his teen years, living off his truck and stealing food. They already know that Michael had been in the system after a car accident near Roswell, and that Max and Isobel had been looking for him for years until theyʼd found him. There’s no need to explain that Michael had managed to contact Antar thanks to discovering the Drake Equation, and that theyʼre destined to rule a whole planet millions of light years away from Earth. 

A throat being cleared at their back startles him. When he turns, he sees Alex leaning on his crutch and looking at him with a weird light in his chocolate eyes. 

“Captain,” Gina greets him quietly. 

“So thatʼs the official story now?” Alex asks. Michael shivers under his scrutiny. It’s been too long since they both had been together in the same space, and while a part of him wants to flee there’s a huge part of his heart that just wants to remain and fight. 

Over a decade later, Michael knows heʼs never getting over Alex Manes. 

“Itʼs the only one that matters,” he whispers. 

“But itʼs not the truth,” Alex insists. “The truth is all that matters.” 

“The truth got us nowhere,” Michael retaliates, rising his voice. “It belongs to us, and us alone.” 

“Have you ever forgotten?” Alex asks, and Michael has to shake his head. It’s impossible for him to forget about the event that shaped his future forever, that stole his only chance at happiness and pushed him onto the path to finding a way back home. 

He sighs again, and motions for Alex to continue. Gina and Blake will end up finding out anyway, with Alex Manes so close to Michael’s life. 

“When he says accident,” Alex explains, now having Gina and Blakeʼs full attention. “He means that my father took a hammer to his left hand and destroyed it.” 

Gina gasps. “But why?” 

“Because heʼs a bigot,” Alex keeps on. “Iʼm glad you could have it fixed. It looks like nothing ever happened.” 

Michael doesn’t say anything for a long while, simply staring at the papers on his desk. He remains still, not wanting to disturb the loaded silence thatʼs fallen on them now that Gina and Blake know a side of the story. Annalyse had known, almost from the beginning, when she asked him about the hand mangled one day and healed the following week. He feels a weight being lifted from his shoulders. 

He never thought he’d feel free from telling half-truths. 

“Iʼm sorry,” Alex says in a low voice, sounding self-aware. “I didnʼt mean to intrude. I just came to remind you all that we have a meeting in half an hour; Iʼm ordering brunch, so I wanted to get your orders right.” 

Michael excuses himself, standing up and all but running to the nearest bathroom. He feels a tightness in his chest that wasnʼt there while Alex had recounted their confrontation with Jesse Manes, and Michael fears heʼs going to choke, all the lightness from before gone as he hears Alex nonchalantly changing subject. He refuses to look at his reflection on the mirror, too busy catching his breath. He takes in one long breath, and then exhales slowly. He needs to focus. He needs to find his ground and anchor to it, or else he risks drowning in Alex Manes. 

Michael grips the sink until his knuckles turn white, and repeats his mantra over and over until his voice is the only thing he can hear among the chaos in his head. _Find Mom. Go back home. Find Mom. Go back home._

He recounts in his mind the data he already has — the clues that start from the crash, when his mother protected him by turning herself in; the years in the system, jumping from one foster home to another, knowing full well how different he was; the first love, the first heartbreak from which he has yet to recover; the equation that allowed him to find his family, and the revelation that he is, in fact, royalty; Max and Isobel, whose real names sound so different, but who agreed to help him even though it seemed an unsurmountable task; the last information that places his mother and the rest of her team that were captured in a facility near Roswell, but Michael has yet to find out how to access it. The name that shows up every time he searches for culprits and enemies. 

Manes. Manes. Manes. 

He canʼt trust anyone with that name. He can’t believe in lies told by lips that belong to the military even if those lips have kissed his sorrows away. He needs to focus. He needs to—

The mirror gives in under his powers with a loud crack and a fissure that crosses the surface from the top right to the bottom left. 

“Shit,” he mutters. He isn’t ready to face the outside world but when he checks his wristwatch he notices that heʼs spent the past twenty minutes staring into space. He shakes himself out of his trance and steels himself for a meeting where heʼll have to muster all his strength in order to seem a half-decent human. 

_No one can know,_ he thinks. 

No one.

* * *

“—and this is where the equation will help us draw a path among the stars to the next habitable planet,” Blake’s saying.

Alex nods his assent although he’s been spacing out for most of their weekly gathering, where Gina and Blake try to make him understand the intrinsic details of their work at SETI. They’re not giving up, but when Alex looks over where Michael’s haphazardly sitting in his chair, he sees the same bored stance that he’s sure he’s projecting himself.

He allows his mind to drift to the last lines of the report Kyle’s sent him — apparently they’ve found heat signatures in a seemingly abandoned military facility called Caulfield, a hundred miles north of Roswell. The report goes on and on about how Project Shepherd, the name his ancestors gave the scheme to hide and torture people for decades, has kept around thirty people captive for the greater part of the past twenty years. One of the subjects — named Mara, subject N-39 — keeps insisting in their language that they’re on a government science mission, but the official statement repeats that she’s an alien who can communicate with the rest telepathically.

The official statement is signed by Master Sergeant Jesse Manes, the very same Jesse Manes who proudly sent Alex away from the core of Project Shepherd and into the black hole that’s SETI because he didn’t trust his youngest son — the weakest, the cripple, the only _gay_ one — with the veritable depth of the family legacy. At first Alex had been mad because it meant being separated from his plan to take down everything his father loved, but it had been a gesture that had surprisingly taken him back to Michael.

Alex will never _not_ be grateful for any outcome that means being closer to the only person who’ve ever made him _feel_.

He’s so lost in the memories of how he’d found out his brothers were also looking for bloody revenge on the man who’d beaten each and every one of them into becoming real Manes men, of how Kyle had rebelled against his own family heritage when he’d discovered that his father had been part of the torture, of how Liz and Rosa and Maria had joined up the team when they met Max and Isobel Evans — the new additions to an ever growing town, always thirsty for new blood to turn into kitsch worshippers. Alex doesn’t even notice Gina and Blake staring at him.

“Captain,” Gina says tentatively. “You with us?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he says. “I kinda spaced out. You were saying?”

“We were talking about going out sometime, having lunch, maybe some milkshakes? Michael here says you love milkshakes.”

“They won’t be as good as the ones at the Crashdown,” Michael smiles. “But from what Max tells me, it’s been so long since you last went to visit that you wouldn’t even know the difference.”

Alex processes everything that Michael’s babbling, and he makes the connections in his mind fast enough that it leaves him dizzy. How could he have missed it? 

“Max?” he asks stupidly. “As in, Max Evans?”

“Yeah,” Michael says brightly. “He’s my brother. I thought you already knew?”

Alex doesn’t need to check the reports again to see the images Liz and Kyle have sent, the glowing handprint on Lizʼs skin, the cave in the desert hidden by haphazardly placed wood pieces, the video evidence of his own fatherʼs craziness. He doesn’t need to read the lines to remember the words, the story of a boy who survived an interplanetary accident and the tale of two twins who wanted to save their brother. 

Alex Manes had always been a disbeliever, until he found proof of his own blindness. However, he hadnʼt thought he’d find the truth while digging into his fatherʼs lies. 

Suddenly it all makes sense: the hand miraculously healed, the siblings that appeared out of nowhere, the strange conversations he had with both Max and Isobel Evans where he was sure the twins were talking in code, the _cosmic_ connection he felt whenever he was close to Michael. 

Alex feels his whole world spinning. He manages to stand up and forge an excuse that sounds dumb even to his own ears, running off to his office before closing the door and locking it with shaky hands.

Michael is an alien.

The words roll off his tongue, “Michael’s an alien,” as he repeats them over and over without hesitation, growing more and more confident within each time. In the end, it seems his father wasn’t as crazy as he’s always thought — he isn’t as insane as Flint and Gregory and Harlan have taught Alex to believe. Jesse Manes has gotten several things right in his life, and his personal vendetta against Michael Guerin has been justified somehow by this unexpected turn of events.

Michael is an _alien_. Alex can’t wrap his head around it, no matter how many times he says the words out loud. If Michael’s had the power to heal himself — that’s Max’s power, and Alex believes all aliens share powers — why didn’t he heal his own hand? Why did Max corroborate Michael’s version? What was the point, if no one would have recognized him in college anyway?

So many questions, and so very few answers. Alex needs more information, more details, but he senses he won’t be getting them any time soon. He shakes his head; his hip is pressed against the door, holding it closed, and his leg is already protesting. He limps to the couch he kept just in case he couldn’t make it back to the tiny apartment he’s rented in Mountain View — he’s been well aware of his bizarre sleeping patterns and the need to go over every file Kyle and Liz send him, with Flint’s approved signature.

He’s just sit down when there’s a knock on the door. 

“Alex?” 

Any other time, he would have felt his heart fluttering at Michael’s voice, tiny and worried. But right now, Alex doesn’t know what to feel — he isn’t sure whether he wants Michael to come in or not. The decision is made for him when Michael announces, “Alex, I’m coming in,” and the door shakes and clunks until the knob gives in and turns.

Belatedly, he remembers that he locked the door from the inside. _Oh_ , he thinks. _So this is his superpower then_. Something inside of him stops Alex from pointing out that the door hadn’t been, in fact, open, for when Michael sets foot inside the office he looks disheveled — as if he’s come running.

“Michael?”

“Are you okay?” he asks, taking a tentative step toward the couch where Alex lies flopped down, boneless and exhausted. “You just bolted, and I got worried.”

“It’s nothing,” Alex lies. “I’m okay.”

“Was it something I said?” Michael fiddles with the hem of his sweater. “I’m sorry if I said something that upset you. I know I have a big mouth.”

“You never used to apologize for speaking,” Alex points out. “That was me, the everlasting scared child.”

“People change,” Michael tells him, taking a new step in his direction. “I didn’t realize you didn’t know I was related to Max.” After a beat, he rushes to explain, “I’m the youngest one, and my mom wasn’t really accepted in my father’s circles. See, it seems I wasn’t exactly, let’s say, born in a legal marriage. But Max and Isobel and I, we have the same father.”

“He’s Liz’s boyfriend,” Alex explains.

“You know Liz too, then?”

“She’s one of my best friends, but back then,” and Alex doesn’t have to say the words, for the shadow of a hammer hangs above them, “Liz was abroad studying with her sister Rosa, somewhere in France.”

Michael nods. Alex lowers his gaze to his hands and then to his knee, where his fingers are massaging the muscle below the fabric. When he looks up again, Michael is hovering over him, an indecipherable gleam in his eyes. “Michael?” he says, more a question than a statement.

Alex stares as Michael sits beside him and visibly holds himself back from reaching out and touching. Alex knows he shouldn’t, knows he isn’t supposed to, knows he should have forgotten about this and left it behind. But he couldn’t back then, he hasn’t been able to let go for over a decade, and he’s sure he’s not going to begin forgetting about how amazing Michael’s curls feel tangled in his fingers.

He can’t help himself.

Before the most logical part of his brain stops him, Alex leans in and brushes his fingertips to Michael’s temple, whispering nonsense that not even he knows the meaning of, and he watches as Michael leans in as well, closer, closer, _closer_ , until there’s nothing else between them than a shred of air and a wisp of scented shower gel. 

A knock on the ajar door startles both of them, and Alex’s brain kicks in finally, making him jerk away. He doesn’t need to look back at Michael to know he’s looking dejected and disappointed. Alex is intimately attuned to Michael’s feelings, and he’s an expert at letting Michael down throughout the years.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Gina says, blushing when Alex sets eyes on her. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay, Captain.”

“I am,” Alex assures her, waving around. “Just felt a bit out of it due to some residual pain, but I’m better now. And you weren’t interrupting anything.”

“Are you—”

“I was just leaving,” Michael finally, _finally_ , says, standing up. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Captain.”

And Alex has never felt smaller in his rank than when Michael finally acknowledges it correctly.

* * *

**february 2020**

Michaelʼs been dreading this phone call for most of the week. Lately, his communications with Max have become more and more stilted, and heʼs really not looking forward to spending his evening retelling his weekly discoveries to his brother when he knows Max will be disappointed in him. 

“What’s new?” he mutters to himself as he turns on his laptop and flops down on his couch. He doesn’t want to talk to Max about his work at SETI and his lack of success in the task his brother put him up to — heʼd rather speak with Isobel about intimate details of her adventures getting to learn Earth habits by sleeping with everyone she desires. 

He clicks on the correct icon and enters his Skype password. Ever since his siblings came to live on Earth — to keep an eye on the progress of the operations according to Max, to learn about human behaviors according to Isobel — communication with them has become easier than the interplanetary calls heʼd been forced to endure for years while he learned his way through humanity on his own. Michael taps his fingers on the surface of his coffee table, where he’s set his laptop, and waits for Max to get online. He checks the clock he hung on the wall next to his TV; heʼs, as always, fifteen minutes early. 

Michael leans back on the couch. He tries to put his mind at ease before he talks to Max, since his brother always manages to get the worst out of him, but his mind keeps wandering back to the kiss that almost was but got dissolved in nerves and misunderstandings. He revels in the scent still lingering in his shirt, in the places where Alex has touched him, grabbing his arm and curling his fingers against Michael’s neck. It’s mostly inconvenient, he decides, that he seems to be falling in love with the one human he should be avoiding. 

Michael knows that, objectively, there’s a high chance of him ending up dating a human. Heʼs been on Earth long enough to already have his fair share of lovers, male and female, but heʼs never seen himself set in a forever future with any of them. He knows his place is back on Antar, as the third son of King Rath and as the only one born outside an approved diplomatic marriage. Heʼs very aware that heʼs meant to come back eventually, when this quest to rescue the crew of their science ship ends, that heʼs born to be a leader. 

It doesn’t really matter that he doesn’t want to follow his father’s steps, that he thinks Max and Isobel are much more suited for the job than he is, that he feels more at ease among lab tubes than with the troops heʼs meant to command. 

In the end, he will have to come back home and become Admiral Rath The Second, his own desires be damned.

The beeping sound of an incoming call shakes him out of his thoughts. He composes himself, absentmindedly raking a hand through his curls and messing them even more than they already were, and he clicks on the green button. “Max,” he greets evenly, trying to infuse his voice with the seriousness that’s expected of him. 

“Michael,” Max greets back, leaning into the camera and clogging the screen. 

“Sit back, Max,” Michael instructs with a shadow of amusement in his voice. For all his regal stance, his brother doesn’t seem able to decipher how to use these human technological devices. “All I can see is your shirt, and believe me, that’s not a sight I want to be having right now.”

Max does as told with a frown, leaning back into his chair and coughing. “I don’t get how you’re comfortable using these things,” he complains. “Everything would be easier if you hadn’t sent back all your Antarian tech.”

“What use would it have had here, anyway?” Michael replies tiredly. It’s an argument they’ve gone over for months now, and it’s starting to wear on him. 

Max seems to agree with the general air of exhaustion Michael exudes, for he simply adds, “I wanted to talk to you about your mission, Michael.” There’s an aura of indecision in his stance, and Michael fears he’s about to get bad news. He’s been aware that he’s living his adventure on Earth on borrowed time. Max doesn’t let him wallow in his doubts for long; he goes straight for the jugular. “I don’t think we’re any closer to finding them, and if that’s the case, we’re wasting a lot of resources on a pointless search instead of using them where they could be successful.”

Although Michael has been expecting his brother to begin pressuring him into leaving Earth, this is _not_ the direction he thought this conversation would be taking. “Are you for real now, Max?” he almost screams, but he catches himself before his voice rises above a steely whisper. “You haven’t even asked if I’m closer to finding them. You’re not interested _in the least_ in whether or not we find my _mother_ and her team. You’re just a selfish son of—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Max says petulantly. “I’d hate to have you arrested for insubordination.”

“You wouldn’t,” Michael retaliates, not missing a beat. “You’re too much of a coward to do that.”

“Michael,” Max says warningly, and it’s all Michael needs to sober up instantly. He knows that voice, he knows what comes next — _why you got to cause a scene, Michael_ and _why don’t you abide by Antar laws, Michael_ and _why can’t you be a little less human and a bit more royal_ — and he doesn’t want to hear it. Not now. He doesn’t want to be reminded of his own failures, of all the ways he managed to fuck up when he was still learning how to navigate the court when his mother left him with King Rath to take a doomed Concorde ride to Earth for research.

“Aren’t you going to ask about this week’s updates?” he tries once again. “I might have a clue, Max, I might be closer to knowing than I was before.”

“I’ll ask about your progress,” Max says, voice tight as if he’s chewing on every word. “When you tell me how it feels, working with Manes’ son.” Michael freezes, and Max seems to take his silence as permission to keep pouring salt in his wound. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Did you think I wouldn’t _know_ that you’re now all friendly with the son of the monster who most likely killed your mother and her team upon their crash on Earth? How can you sleep at night, Michael?” Max inhales deeply, counting under his breath but not low enough that Michael doesn’t hear him. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you’re compromised. You’ve been on Earth for ten years now, and it’s time you come back home. You’re not going to find them, Michael, and I won’t keep looking the other way when we need you and that genius brain of yours back in Antar.”

“Are you coming back too, Max?” Michael manages to grit out. “Or are you staying somewhere close to Liz?” He watches as his brother flinches and then gets all tense, squaring his shoulders. “You’re not the only one with information, Max. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll keep up this search on my own if I need to. But you’re not sending me back home empty-handed all because you want to play human with _her_.”

Michael doesn’t have anything against Liz Ortecho. He’s met her through one Skype call a few months ago, when they still talked about other issues that didn’t revolve around getting back to Antar, and she’s been a fixture whenever the three of them gather together. Isobel likes Liz. Hell, even Michael likes her. But that doesn’t give Max any right to decide about everyone’s life while he gets to keep his happiness.

“Don’t you dare—” Max starts, but Michael isn’t paying attention to him. In his wrath, he’s allowed his powers to go wild, and there are sheets and pens floating around him, as well as some physics books and even one of his chairs. It’s a matter of time that he lifts the couch too, if this conversation goes on much longer, so he has to do something.

“Save it, _brother_ ,” he sneers. “I have to go now.”

And with a swift movement of his wrist, he closes the Skype window and brings down the laptop screen. The items flying around his living room aren’t slowing down, and he feels like he’s about to have a stroke. After so many years on Earth — after everything he’s experienced — he can recognize the signs of an anxiety attack. He curses under his breath, and tries to focus on something, _anything_ , but Max’s words keep replaying in his mind, over and over, like a fucked-up mantra he can’t shake off.

_the monster who killed your mother_

_killed your mother_

_killed_

_killed_

_killed_

“Enough!” he yells, more to himself than to lash out, but his voice comes off harsh. The shelf behind the couch begins to rattle, the books shaking before threatening to tumble down. There’s no way he’s calming down now; not even when he mutters about five things he can see and four things he can touch, because when he reaches the three things he can hear all he thinks about is the sound of people crying out for help while the fire licks everywhere in a crashed spaceship, and he crumbles to the floor, clutching the edges of the coffee table. His breath comes out in stutters and his head’s spinning.

He tries to lie on the floor, in the space between the table and the couch. He places his back against the cold tiles and rests his head for once. The cool feeling seeps deep in his bones, strangely calming him. He doesn’t know how long he stays on the ground, just breathing, chest heaving up and down — first erratically, and later on calmer and calmer as he conjures happy images of his childhood to keep him from spiraling.

He revels in the memory of his mother’s blonde locks brushing his cheek every time she sang him a lullaby. He wants to live forever in the seconds that her kisses lasted on his forehead. He needs to remember the exact twist of her voice when she said his name.

When he finally finds enough strength to get up, night’s already fallen on Mountain View.

* * *

Alex leans his frame against the wall for the third time since he reached the building, half an hour ago. He’s still holding in a tight grip the folder with all the information heʼs gathered with the help of his friends and a little bit of hacking abilities. His head is spinning with the thrilling trepidation of mysteries solved and the myriad questions that the truth has raised. 

He doesn’t know what to believe anymore. 

Alex massages his leg right above the stump in soothing circles. He realizes itʼs a deflective motion, an excuse to postpone what he ought to do, but he does it nonetheless. In between kneading his muscles, he looks up at the buzzer where Michael’s name is displayed for everyone to read. “Such an idiot,” he mutters, not sure if itʼs addressed to Michael or to himself. Given what heʼs just found out, he feels the need to kick himself — and Michael — for being so thoughtless throughout their teen years, and now that theyʼre adults. 

There’s a noise inside the building, the door buzzing open, and an old man with a dog on a leash crosses the threshold. He eyes Alex suspiciously before holding the door open for him. Alex nods his thanks and rushes inside as fast as his prosthesis allows him to. The elevator is waiting for him by the end of the hall, and he doesn’t hesitate; he enters and presses the right button, punching the one next to the _close door_ sign in an attempt to make it work faster. Suddenly heʼs in a rush. 

The elevator dings as it reaches the right floor. Alex holds the metallic door open with one hand as he steels himself with the other and steps outside. His mindʼs spinning as he searches for the door and lifts his hand to knock on it. The hall looks like Michael’s the only one living there — there arenʼt any other doors around, and everything seems quiet until he hears a loud thump behind the door. His heart quickens its beating when the noise resumes, increasing in volume. 

Somethingʼs wrong. 

Alex places his hand fully on the wooden surface, and jumps backwards when it simply gives in under his gentle touch. He tucks the folder in a roll in his back pocket and takes out the gun that always goes with him everywhere. He enters the apartment stealthily, ready to point his gun at every corner and shadows when he realizes the space is an open concept. 

The furniture is flying across the living room, colliding mid-air with each other, but all Alex can register when he focuses in the scene in front of him is Michael balled up on the floor, bouncing back and forth and muttering something that canʼt be heard over the ruckus. He rushes to Michael’s side, discarding his gun once he’s put the safety back on, and kneels awkwardly by his side. His prosthesis is going to give him hell tomorrow, he knows it, but he couldn’t care less.

“Michael,” he whispers, approaching him without really touching — he understands enough about trauma to actually act carefully about boundaries and consent. “Michael, I’m here.”

Michael doesn’t seem to acknowledge him; Alex tries again, but gets the exact same reaction from Michael — the furniture stills floats around the room, and the cupboard that isn’t flying because it’s most probably screwed to the floor is rattling. “Michael!” he insists, throwing all caution out the window and placing a hand on Michael’s shoulder. Michael’s hand shoots up and covers Alex’s, and the world seems to end when he clings tight to Alex.

The chaos ends that very same instant, the couch and the shelves falling to the ground around them. Michael looks lost and pale when Alex finally catches a glimpse of him through his curls, an unruly mass around his face like a halo.

“Alex?” Michael questions in a low and unsure voice. He blinks. “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here.”

“The door was open,” Alex tells him, and that’s mostly the truth. He doesn’t want to let go of Michael, now that he’s got a taste of how it feels to hold Michael again in his arms. “Are you okay?”

As though he’s coming out of a trance, Michael jerks out of Alex’s grip and stumbles to his feet so fast that he spins around and almost falls back down on his knees. “You shouldn’t be here,” he repeats, this time more frantic, looking around in an attempt to make sure everything’s in place. Alex wants to scream that _nothing_ is where it should be, starting and ending with them — with the way they avoid each other, with how distant they seem to be when all Alex wants to do is breathe Michael in every second of every day.

A crunch catches his attention when he manages to stand up as well, his range of motion diminished by his prosthesis. He reaches back and grabs the folder that burns in his fingertips as he brandishes it. “Michael,” he calls out again, this time realizing he’s using his first name instead of _Guerin_ , the syllables rolling off his tongue as though they belong there. “We need to talk.”

“Everything has a perfectly normal explanation,” Michael says, almost tripping over his own words. “Believe me, I—”

“I know you’re an alien,” Alex cuts him off. Michael recoils as if Alex has physically punched him, and it takes all of Alex’s strength to refrain from reaching out and touching him again — Michael looks like a wild animal trapped in headlights. “That’s not my point here, though,” he continues.

“You—you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Michael stammers. “I—I have to ask you to leave now.”

“I’m not leaving you alone in this mess,” Alex says, gesturing around them at the chaos that the living room has become, all the furniture turned upside down and even one of the mirrors shredded to pieces. “I’m not leaving you alone, Michael. I’m trying not to repeat my mistakes.” His words are said with a purpose that finally reaches to Michael, who looks back agape. When Michael nods, Alex smoothes the rolled-up folder with his fingers and opens the cover page.

“What’s that?” Michael asks in a tiny voice, just a thread above a whisper.

“I know you’re searching for someone,” Alex explains, ignoring the rattle the furniture begins to make again as Michael’s hands ball into fists. “If you don’t calm down, I won’t be able to help you,” he admonishes.

“I don’t need your help,” Michael retaliates through gritted teeth.

“I think you do,” Alex replies wisely, perusing the documents in his hands and pointing at a line with his index finger. He reads out aloud, “Mara, subject N-39, surrendered after crash at Foster Ranch, Roswell, New Mexico.” He looks up in time to see Michael paling noticeably. He keeps on. “In good health. Seems to hold back on her powers. Resistant to serum. During testing, she screams a name. No match in known records.”

“Which name?” Michael dares to ask when Alex stops. “Which name, Alex?” Michael repeats in despair.

“It isn’t _Michael_ ,” Alex tells him in a low voice, much like he’s telling a secret. “I bet you know which name, _Rath_ , since she’s your mom, isn’t she?”

There are tears in Michael’s eyes that match the ones Alex is about to shed as well, feeling too much and being almost numb at the same time. There’s a pregnant silence that hangs between them, loaded with all the secrets and the lies they have been holding onto.

“Is she—” Michael swallows, not acknowledging Alex’s words further than to ask, “is she alive?”

“She was,” Alex confirms. “At least she was three days ago, when I last checked.”

Rage flashes in Michael’s eyes. “You’ve known all this time,” he accuses. “You’ve known, and if you’ve known that only means your father knows and—and—you have her, don’t you? You’re keeping her captive! Where is she? Where are you keeping her?” He surges forward, his hands finally free from his fists, and with him some objects lunge as well.

There’s a pointed knife flying his way when he looks up.

Alex tries to shield himself from the attack, but the knife stops short of an inch from his chest. He stills with his hands up in the air, the sheets in his left hand waving in tune with the shaking in his whole body. He doesn’t get scared often — not after having been to war and back — but in this moment he’s afraid of Michael and Michael’s extraterrestrial abilities. It looks like Michael can sense his fear as well, and he deflates almost instantly.

“You’re not in your right mind,” Alex says slowly, still unable to stop the trembling in his hands. “This is _not_ you, Michael.”

The name seems to finally seep into Michael’s psyche, and he screws his eyes closed with a pained rictus in his mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I’m just desperate.”

“I know,” Alex keeps going. “I know what it’s like to lose your mom, but you at least can find her. Believe me.”

“It’s just—Max says _she_ is dead, that your father killed her, and I just—I just—” Michael falls to his knees then, clutching his head in his hands and shaking it from left to right. 

Alex reacts at that statement, stepping closer and sitting on the floor next to Michael — his right leg doesn’t allow him much more range of movement — before throwing the papers away and surrounding Michael’s body with his arms. There will be time for everything else later — for confessions and half-truths. For explanations about how Alex has found out about aliens. For the reasons why Michael thought he couldn’t trust the only Manes who’s never followed the same path as the rest. For how stupid they’ve both been — for how much they’ve needed each other, they’ve wanted each other, and still they’ve pushed each other away in an attempt to protect themselves from broken hearts and _love_.

As he rocks Michael in his arms, a boneless and crying mess, Alex makes a promise out loud that’s more to himself than to Michael, but a promise nonetheless.

“We’re going to burn everything down, Michael. My legacy and our past, all down in flames.”

* * *

**april 2020**

They make good on that promise less than three weeks later, hand in hand as Caulfield goes up in flames, the monster inside and the aliens outside. There was a moment, when they were trying to get rid of the glass separating them from Mara — the woman from his childhood memories a little more jaded, a little more beaten around the edges — when Michael thought he’d go down in flames, but Alex had been able to get over the failsafe security system and get them out before that last explosion. They’ve run, and run, and run, as the monster kept screaming at them, scrambling to salvage his own dreams from a place that Michael wishes he could obliterate.

Alex’s words still ring in his ears, _they may be your family, Guerin, but you are mine_ , and the feeling of belonging grows in his chest.

Michael looks at his right, at the slender hand that trembles at the lightest touch — fleeting, soft, caring — and his eyes roam up to the face staring into the flames. Theyʼve freed around twenty prisoners, all with otherworldly heat markers that situate their birthplace on Antar as well. Most of them are whispering in a language that Michael recognizes but canʼt seem to understand, and almost all are grinning at the miracle of being alive, of having survived torture and starvation and pain. 

His mother, all blonde locks framing her tired face, isn’t smiling. There’s a grimace grazing her lips, serious lines of something that Michael can’t identify marring the sides of her mouth. 

“The monsterʼs gone,” he says out loud, the taste of the words leaden on his tongue. “Arenʼt you happy, mom?” 

“Will you be able to sleep at night, Rath?” she speaks up. “You were never meant to be a killer, no matter what your father thinks. You’re still a child.” 

Michael ponders her words for a second, memories flooding his mind as he replays them — the crash and the fear, the long years feeling abandoned until he was finally seen, the hammer and the fleeing, the redemption and the sense of a future, finding Max and Isobel and his memories of Antar coming to life. 

Alex, once and again and again. 

Alex, who confronted his father before enlisting to save Michael’s life. Alex, who went to hell and back. Alex, who spied on his father with the help of some friends and finally took him down. 

“He had you,” he explains. “I am not that kid anymore, mom. We have so much to relearn.” 

She nods, pensive. “I have so much to tell you too, son. We have time, still, donʼt we?” 

Michael looks at his left, where Alex is staring at the flames, illuminated by oranges and yellows, and Isobel and Max, and Liz and Kyle and Maria, who have all helped shape this revenge thatʼs been over a decade in the making. 

“Yes, mom,” he assures her, squeezing her hand over his biceps. “We have all the time in this world, in any world.”

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'ed by the ever amazing [manesalex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/manesalex), without whom this would have been completely different and utterly worse. Thank you for your kind and wonderful help, Molly!
> 
> Title taken from Backstreet Boys' _Make Believe_ , which is oddly fitting.


End file.
